Abstract
In the animal kingdom, the rule is, eat or be eaten;
in the human kingdom, define or be defined.
We are the storytelling animal.
It is 1984. In the US, an advertisement starts playing on the television: a grizzly bear is wandering through a forest. A narrator’s voice accompanies it, suggesting that the bear could be dangerous and that it would be wise to be prepared. During the final scene, a man appears, causing the bear to retreat. The advertisement ends with the tagline: ‘President Reagan: Prepared for Peace’ (Museum of the Moving Image 2016).
Without directly mentioning his Democrat opponent, defence spending or the threat from the Soviet Union, the advertisement’s imagery and narrative positioned Reagan (who would eventually win a sweeping victory) as better equipped to identify and tackle global threats. It is also believed to have swayed public opinion away from the more conciliatory position of the Democrat candidate, Walter Mondale, who wanted to negotiate with the Soviet Union. Through a simple, yet subtle and powerful metaphor, the advertisement helped to clarify in the public imagination the complex nature of the Soviet threat and how the US should respond to it.
This is just one of many anecdotes that has as its starting point the animal metaphors that portray many of the world’s countries. In the rich and complex zoo that is our world system, the American eagle, the Chinese dragon, the Russian bear, the French rooster, and many other large and small beasts of many colours and shapes coexist peacefully. Or, on the contrary, they are intent on devouring each other in a continuous quest to remain or become the king of the jungle. Success is not purely determined by size; sometimes the one that can adapt the fastest will survive, while the unluckiest or most unskilled one will become extinct.
But why use metaphors at all? It does not take a full course in semantics, a Ph.D. in discourse analysis or a fancy term such as ‘metaphoric storytelling’ for one to know that metaphors, along with allegories and storytelling, are ultimately not just a means of communication, but weapons that can be used to project power. Our ability to make and understand metaphors appears to be an automatic cognitive process, one that likely evolved along with our linguistic ability. Because metaphors are processed automatically, without conscious appraisal, they help us to communicate and clarify complex ideas and processes. They create emotions: pride, fear, courage and ambition. Sometimes, especially in times of great change and upheaval, they can also help to manipulate, propagandise and distort.
Where do countries get their animal metaphors from? Inspiration is drawn from the natural world, and national habitats and ecosystems, as well as national myths, legends and religions; even the most obscure ones have a history and a purpose. And the power of the animal metaphor is not exclusively linked to the world of the written word. The use of political symbolism and iconography spans from the heraldry of medieval times and royal seals, to the political cartoons of the nineteenth century, pre-war zoomorphic propaganda maps and the colourful fauna of the Economist covers of today.
But in contrast to the natural world, some national animals do change their spots. After all, the line between symbol and stereotype is a fine one; all it takes is a good spin doctor (or should we say spin vet?) to turn a derisory name into a matter of national pride. That is exactly what happened to the Russian bear: originally used by the British and other Westerners as early as the sixteenth century to ridicule the big, brutal and clumsy Russia, it was later adopted and embraced by Russia itself as a symbol that projected power (and instilled fear). Its adoption is so absolute that few know that the actual official animal of Russia is the double-headed eagle (another powerful metaphor for a country looking both to the East and the West, but that is a story for another time). During the 1980 Moscow Olympic Games, at the height of the Cold War, the same spin doctors turned the beast into a mascot named ‘Misha the Bear’ in order to alleviate the West’s unease. At this point, one cannot but wonder: if Russia wins the ongoing Arctic race, will the Russian bear be rebranded as a polar bear?
Unfortunately, for others the story has happened in reverse. For years, Ireland was proudly known as the Celtic tiger, thanks to the country’s economic miracle and unprecedented growth. However, by 2008 the Celtic tiger had gone the way of the dodo. Having failed to secure even a soft landing (approaching, but avoiding, a recession), it instead crashed in the midst of a much less glamorous group of animals: the PIGS (i.e. Portugal, Italy, Greece and Spain). Finally, for others, it is just a matter of optics: when some look at the Indian elephant, they see the strength, wisdom and pacifism of a superior sacred creature, while others see unrealised might and untapped potential (elephants are also slow, heavy and stubborn).
Speaking of elephants, the time has finally come to tackle the E(U)lephant in the room: if the EU had a symbolic animal, what would it be? Could it be a turtle, crawling slowly but steadily to eventually win the race, as in the famous fable? Could it be a dove, due to its pacifist nature (or its reluctance to spend more on defence, as critics would point out)? Or could it, perhaps, even be a unicorn, reflecting the almost-mythical nature of the whole European project? Hopefully the political animals of the EU will come up with an answer before others label us in a way that benefits their own narrative. It is too bad that the creator of Reagan’s ‘Bear in the woods’ advertisement will not be around to produce the commercial once this happens!
Footnotes
Author biography